


In the beginning

by Nary



Category: 12th Century CE RPF, Lion in Winter (1968)
Genre: Adultery, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-16
Updated: 2010-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry was eighteen, Eleanor near thirty when they met that rainy afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the beginning

Henry was eighteen, Eleanor near thirty when they met that rainy afternoon. That she was also the wife of the king of France and he but a new-made count was of little consequence in the face of the lust that threatened to overwhelm them both. He met her eyes boldly, without deference to her rank, and when he kissed her hand his lips lingered longer than most men would dare. That she did not snatch her hand away let him know he hadn't overstepped his bounds – yet.

"Young Count Henry," she said, and her eyes were sly and bright. "I remember your father well – I was greatly surprised and saddened to hear of his death."

"It was most sudden," he agreed. He didn't tell her that not long before his death, his father had quite specifically warned him about Queen Eleanor and her wiles. He'd often ignored his father's advice.

"You have his look about you. Geoffrey the Handsome, well-named," she said with a smile, but perhaps a little melancholy tinged her voice. Later, he would remember those words and begin to doubt, but for now he was merely flattered by the oblique compliment.

It was grossly inappropriate for them to be alone together, but Eleanor circumvented those restrictions as easily as she might weave through her partners' arms in a dance. She had a maid, old and well-trusted, who would appear to chaperone them, but in truth she sat in the adjoining chamber, spinning, or more often often snoring. Henry was young, but clever enough to know what he was being offered.

"How is your husband, milady?"

"Virtuous," she said, and her tone conveyed _boring._

"And your daughters?"

"Insufficiently male."

He'd heard rumours that, with the birth of the second daughter, Louis was considering an annulment. Perhaps it was true. "I'm sorry?" he said, testing the waters to try and gauge her opinion of the matter.

"Don't be," she replied sharply. "That they were born female is no just cause for sorrow."

"Indeed," he countered, "for without girl-children there would be no women like your majesty."

The clever boy was stringing her along now, making her wait. Eleanor was tired of waiting. "No more talk," she said suddenly, and rose from her bench. Henry was in her arms before she invited him there, though in a sense she'd been inviting him since he first entered her presence.

His large hands were strong on her back, and his mouth hungry for hers. Louis would only couple with her on the days the church permitted (never on Sundays, or holidays, or fast days – which disallowed the entire forty days of Lent! – or when her moon's blood was upon her or during the hours of daylight, or or or,) and even then, he barely touched her during the act except with the parts of his body that were strictly necessary for generation. Henry, au contraire, was pushing her against the wall and shoving a hand up beneath her skirts while he kissed her neck, her collarbones, the soft channel between her breasts, as though he wanted to devour her utterly.

His fingers found their way between her legs – she raised her hip to give him entrance – and then he was inside her for the first time, his thumb stroking roughly against the centre of her pleasure. She gasped and clutched him to her the more tightly, and he laughed, that infuriating, arrogant, wonderful laugh that said he knew the power he held over her and delighted in it. Eleanor couldn't let him get away with it, not so easily as that. She reached down, gripping him lightly over his hose and teasing him with her gentle touch until he finally groaned her name and withdrew his hand to fumble with his laces, able to bear the torment no longer.

He was impressive, far more worthy of her than her husband, and she would have liked nothing more than to spread her legs for him here and now, against the wall. He seemed to have the same idea, moving to open her once more, but she stopped him. "Not now," she murmured, and secretly relished his sigh of disappointment. "Not until…" She left the words unsaid, letting him read his own hopes into the empty space.

"Ought I to go?" he asked, like a schoolboy who had been reprimanded but remained unchastened.

"Never," she said, and took his length in her hand to stroke him. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, but when she moved to use her mouth upon him, he caught her by the arm and raised her up.

"It's not meet," he said, "for one such as yourself to kneel to a knave like me. Let me, instead." And he knelt before her, raising her skirts until she was exposed to him – in full daylight! she thought, amused and mildly scandalized – and worshipped at her altar with tongue and hands until her legs shuddered and her breath caught in her throat and she thought she might die or faint from the pleasure he brought her. She dug her fingers into his thick hair, but did not cry out when she peaked against his rough mouth.

"I adore you," he told her before he departed, and she felt in that moment all her hopes and terrors realized.


End file.
